


The Templar Hunter

by Smith



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blood Magic, Demons, M/M, Mage Rebellion, Mages and Templars, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4640964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smith/pseuds/Smith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man known only as the Templar Hunter is brought before Inquisitor Devdan Trevelyan for judgment, but sparing him for the sake of the Inquisition (so he tells himself) causes complications for his personal life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sit in Judgment

**Author's Note:**

> A happy little AU that came to me as I was smooshing mine and my friend's Inquisitors together like Ken dolls, and then promptly consumed me. Devdan Trevelyan belongs to splicerspawn.
> 
> Additional tags will be added.

Lights are dim in the grand hall as it stands empty of guests. Thunder cracks outside, and lightning flashes against the high windows behind the throne. Devdan sits as the prisoner is dragged up before him, his worn boots scuffing the ground as the guards yank him along.

"Inquisitor," Josephine begins as she reads the charges, "this prisoner is accused of the murder of numerous templars and ex-templars. He refuses to give his name, but gained a reputation as a templar hunter among the southern mages, and his targets were not limited to enemies he faced on the battlefield. He has taken contracts to murder templars in cold-blood, whether they were involved in the conflict or not. Most notably, he killed our contact, Ser Maurice, and impaled his head upon a pike outside the village of Dyer in Ferelden."

Devdan leans forward on the throne with an eyebrow arched, eyes sweeping down over the small, hunched figure standing between two tall human guards. All he sees is the top of his head, dark hair loose and hanging down around his face, and long, nicked elven ears, the right one missing a tip.

"These are grave charges." Tilting his head, Devdan's arm rests on his thigh, and he rubs his fingers together. "How do you plead?"

Lifting his head, the elf stares at him with ice blue eyes and a dead expression, his tongue sliding across his top teeth, but doesn't speak.

"You have nothing to say?"

"They all deserved it," he mutters through gritted teeth, but his vitriol carries it to the throne, "Every single one."

"That's not much of a defence."

"My life is, as always, in someone else's hands," the elf says with a sneer. "Nothing I say will change that fact. Do what you will."

"Well, I'm not going to execute you." Devdan leans back and rests on one arm of the throne.

"Why not?" The elf glares at Josephine. "You heard the woman, I'm a cold-blooded murderer."

"But you're not an unhinged killer; you had purpose, a target. I can use that, even if I don't agree with it."

"All the men I killed would've done the same to me, or any of my brothers and sisters, if they had the chance." The templar hunter lurches forward, and his chains rattle as his guard yanks him back and he snarls, glaring at the man. "Some of them did, that's why I killed them. Every templar I killed murdered one of us, raped one of us, stole one of our children, beat, starved and humiliated one of us."

"And Ser Maurice? Why did he deserve to die?"

"I was hired to kill him because he murdered a child."

Devdan takes a breath and glances briefly to Cullen haunting the corner behind him. "I would have liked to investigate these claims."

"I know what your kind's 'investigations' look like." The elf regards his guards for a second longer, and then his eyes travel up to the throne. "Conveniently, most of the victims are dead or Tranquil, and I will never give up the others. Let them carve what peace they can out of the future, and I be the hand of vengeance."

Devdan purses his lips, and then sighs. "I'd much rather make use of your talents." He rolls his head on his neck. "I sentence you to serve the Inquisition, I want you to aid our mages against the dangers we face from the red templar threat. You will have a guard assigned to you until I deem your sentence done."

"Just what I need, another mage tower."

The guard at his side hesitates as he looks at the Inquisitor, before stepping forward and sliding a key into the padlock that chains the prisoners hands together.

When the weight genuinely falls away and he rubs his sore wrists, the elf stares up at the Inquisitor with a mixture of bewilderment and suspicion, and his hairless brows draw together. "I won't be held accountable for my actions if any of your templars should they seek to do me harm."

"Our templars are disciplined and under control of our Commander, whom I trust." Devdan pushes himself up and takes a step down towards the elf. "If you cause no harm, no harm will come to you." He glances to Josephine. "Find space for him with the mages, make sure he is assigned a guard. Not a templar."

Rubbing his face, he catches glimpse of Cullen's stormy expression, though the man has thankfully not said a word so far. He reluctantly walks over to him.

Josephine draws to his side and lowers her voice. "Are you sure this is wise, Inquisitor?"

"I concur," Cullen says as he unfolds his arms. "This is a very bad idea."

"We've recruited worse," Devdan says, "As a matter of necessity. And if he can take down templars as easily as the rumours dictate, you can imagine he might be useful against a red templar army, yes?"

"Yes, "Josephine mutters reluctantly, her lips pursed as she glances down at her papers, "of course, ser." She moves away and follows the guard leading the templar hunter out of the hall.

"Be that as it may," Cullen says, straightening and resting a hand on his sword as he keeps his eyes on the elf, "I won't have my templars in danger because of this man."

"If trouble arises, we will deal with it when it comes," Devdan reassures him. "He will answer to Grand Enchanter Fiona, but we won't forget he's a lit fuse, and we will handle him as such, until he is no longer useful."

Devdan's gaze roams to the great doors at the front of the hall, where his latest recruit follows his guard outside with the vigilance of a man who's been ambushed one too many times, but the squared shoulders of one who's learned not to fear it.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Inquisitor," Cullen says as he pushes himself away from the wall and begins to leave.

Devdan sighs through his nose. "So do I."


	2. The View from Skyhold

The short walk across the courtyard is enough to allow the rain to soak through every layer of Felran's clothes, but it runs in rivulets off the guard's helmet and armour, catching the gleam of light from the oil lamps as they slip inside, and the ambassador wears a thick leather cloak to protect her dress.

The guard's boots drown out his own as he's marched through the castle, garnering wary looks from the occasional passing mage or servant. He sees a woman he recognises, who'd paid him five sovereigns six months ago to kill a templar who assaulted her in the Kirkwall Circle; she quickly looks away when their eyes meet.

"You will sleep here," the ambassador informs him after they've taken a couple of corners and a flight of stairs, arriving in front of a narrow door that seems forgotten between two archways and a stairwell, possibly a former storage cupboard. "I'll arrange for someone to bring you dinner in a short while."

"Thank you, Lady Ambassador," Felran replies with a bow of his head. "I appreciate your hospitality."

He pushes the door open to reveal a room little bigger than the cot and the chamberpot that occupies it, with a narrow slit for a window around which cold air and the smell of rain rushes.

"Ser Heinrich," the ambassador addresses the knight. "I will have dinner brought to the prisoner, and I'll arrange for a colleague to relieve you during night rotation, but I would like you to resume guarding him in the morning."

"Yes, ma'am," the knight replies with a shallow bow.

"Thank you."

"Excuse me, Lady Ambassador," Felran interjects before she can leave. "I would like to know what happened to my belongings, and if they are safe. I understand if they can't be returned to me, but I need to know they are being kept."

"Yes, of course. I will look into that for you." Without meeting his eyes, she nods at the both of them, and then departs.

Ser Heinrich establishes himself beside the door, broad and unyielding in his armour. "It'd be best if you retired to your quarters," he suggests.

Felran's eyes roam down the guard's body and back up again, before he turns and shuts the door behind him. He kneels on the bed and pries at the window frame with slender fingers until the stone crumbles a little more and he feels the breeze caress his face. Laying down beneath it, he stares up at the ceiling and breathes in the damp scent of moss and rain.

After a dinner of barley and meat scraps floating in thin broth with a chunk of stale bread, Felran sleeps poorly in this cold castle in a strange bed.

An equally uninspiring breakfast starts his morning, and then he is led through the castle to the library, where the woman he recognises as Grand Enchanter Fiona greets him on the second floor. 

"Master Lavellan," she greets with a polite, if uneasy, smile.

"I don't go by that name anymore, Grand Enchanter," Felran replies, greeting her with a polite bow of his head.

"Well, I can't call you by your moniker, as much as you might like that." Her frown is deeply disapproving.

"You misjudge me, Grand Enchanter." His fingers skirt along the edge of the desk behind her, glancing over the scattered parchments. "Felran will be sufficient."

"Right, of course." She nods and steps between him and her paperwork. "The Inquisition is hoping you might teach some of our mages how to resist red templar influence."

Felran purses his lips as he eyes the woman, and folds his arms across his chest. "I'm not sure what I know can be taught."

"Surely you can try?"

Felran shrugs. "I suppose I don't have a choice."

"Well, quite." Fiona turns to his guard with a polite smile, tempered by years of handling sensitive templar egos. "We won't be needing you for the rest of the afternoon."

"With all due respect, Grand Enchanter," Ser Heinrich replies, "I've been instructed not to leave the prisoner under any circumstances."

"There will be more than enough of us to watch him," she reassures, "And we'd hate for you to get hit by a stray spell."

Ser Heinrich bristles, and shifts his weight from foot to foot. "I'm more than capable of handling mages, Grand Enchanter."

"I'm sure you are," Felran mutters dryly, and he can't help the smirk that pulls at his lips. When the knight notices, Felran smugly folds his arms across his chest, and refuses to look away first.

"I will give you your privacy," Ser Heinrich eventually relents, reluctantly returning his gaze to Fiona. "But I will be on the edge of the training yard."

"That is an acceptable compromise." Fiona nods, with the air of someone only relenting because she knows she cannot win, and turns to Felran, gesturing for him to follow her.

-

It's still raining outside when Felran finds the library, but the castle walls mute the drumming.

The Grand Enchanter, it turns out, is not a difficult woman to elude, and Felran slips from her attentions while she's handling a distraction he may or may not have caused. Raising his hood, he makes his way through the shadowy halls of the keep, to the rotunda where fascinating murals are taking shape on the walls, and past the attentions of the painter who regards him with shining eyes only after he's reached the stairwell.

He slinks up the stairs to the musty safe haven of bookshelves and researchers, and a quiet nook catches his attention. He flings himself down on a comfortable couch under the attentions of a handsome mustachioed archivist, after selecting a tome of arcane history and taking a moment to appreciate what precious scraps the mages have managed to claw from the wreckage of the Circles.

"So you're the big bad dangerous apostate I've heard so much about?"

Felran pulls the book down away from his face, and glances up at the shadow that's fallen over him, finding the handsome archivist with a curious accent. His gaze slides up the man's leg to his hip, and to the muscular shape of his arms, the movement of his hand as he rubs his fingers together.

"Not so big," Felran mutters with a smirk, gesturing to his skinny legs flung over the arm of the sofa, "Or bad, or dangerous, if I like you."

"Is that an invitation?"

"It might be."

The man gestures to the nearest door. "Aren't you meant to be on a leash?"

Felran awkwardly pushes himself up onto his elbows and twists around, dropping his legs to the floor. "Probably." He smiles wider. "Is _that_ an invitation? I know you Tevinter men like an elf in chains, but I'm afraid I don't play that way."

"Oh, I'm sure we can find something we'll _both_ enjoy." He suggests. "Do you have a name? Or should I call you Mister Hunter?"

"That _is_ a game I can get behind," Felran mutters with a grin as he gets to his feet and stares at the man. "But you can also call me Felran." 

"Dorian Pavus, of House Pavus. A pleasure to meet you."

"And I you, Dorian Pavus of House Pavus." Felran leans a little closer, until he can feel Dorian's breath on his face, and then the march of heavy footsteps reach his ears and he looks up in time to see red-faced Ser Heinrich dragging himself to the top of the stairwell.

With a sigh, he pulls away, and strokes the collar of Dorian's tunic contemplatively. "Such a pity," he laments. "We were just getting acquainted."

Dorian turns, too, as Felran makes his way over to the knight. "I'm sure we'll see each other around, Mister Pavus."

"I'm sure we will," the man murmurs behind him, as Felran is prodded down the stairs.

-

When he returns to the closet in which he sleeps, there's a crate on the bed, with a note reading:

_Master Lavellan,_

_In response to your request, here are some of the belongings we confiscated upon your arrival. Your staff, spell tomes and other weaponry remain safe in storage._

_Let me know if you require anything else._

_-Ambassador Montilyet_

Felran flings the lid open and digs into the box, tossing aside clothes, dried food and medicine bottles until he finds at the bottom, gleaming and alone, a ring. He takes a breath, and picks it up, sliding it onto his right ring finger where it belongs, the very last memory of home.

He lifts it to his lips and kisses it, before tossing the crate against the door and throwing himself down on the bed. The draft around the window makes his bones ache, but he cannot be without the taste of fresh air as he sleeps.

These first few days continue unremarkably, with guards watching his every move, and sometimes a templar or two wringing their hands or touching their swords when he passes.

Felran catches the occasional glimpse of the Inquisitor, often as one of them are being led across the grounds, or climbing stairs in the evening in search of whatever passes for rest around here. Meanwhile he's poked and prodded around the castle by Ser Heinrich according to Grand Enchanter Fiona's whims, and collapses into bed exhausted and cold every night.

A week later, he's given a moment's pause in the middle of the day, and he lingers on the ramparts outside the mage's tower.

"It doesn't suit me," he says after a few minutes of eyeing the courtyard on this mild afternoon, with the sun hanging high in the crisp mountain air.

Felran glances at his guardsman. The man's milky blue gaze slides to him, framed with eyelashes so blonde they're almost white, though his hair is flame red.

Heinrich only grunts.

"It's not forbidden for us to talk, is it?" Felran asks.

"Not forbidden, no," Heinrich replies, "I just have no desire to associate willingly with a murderer."

"You're so predictable, Heinrich," Felran tells him. "Dull, dull, dull."

"And you're so flippant about the deaths of good men."

"Oh, I am never flippant about the deaths of _good_ men," Felran tilts his head and narrows his lips, "but I am damn proud of the deaths of bad ones."

"Pride is a sin in the eyes of the Maker, knife-ear."

Felran sneers. "Lucky I don't believe in the Maker, then, isn't it?"

"Also a sin." Heinrich doesn't even meet his eyes.

"Hm." Felran shrugs, and then dips his head to sniff his armpit. "Well, I do _smell_ like sin, so perhaps that's what you're sensing. Where do I bathe? You Fereldans are filthy."

Heinrich's lip curls. "You don't. You're a fucking prisoner, not a guest."

"Well, you're the one who has to put up with the smell, I suppose." Felran shrugs. "But it wouldn't be too difficult to melt some ice and douse my naked body in cold water, you might even enjoy it."

Heinrich's hand jerks up in a moment, and Felran stares at him impassively as he seems to catch himself, take a breath, and step back. "Don't challenge me, elf. You will not win, and no one will care if I strike you down."

Felran snorts. "Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked? Is that what you're going for?" His eyes narrow, a challenge. "Are you a champion of the just?"

"Do not use the words of the chant against me, you piece of shit," Heinrich spits the words from behind clenched teeth. "Do not use the words of the chant. They are not for you."

"Yeah, I gathered as much from the way they've been used destroy my people."

Heinrich rolls his eyes. "Do you want a knife in your gut right now?"

"I don't think the Inquisitor would be happy if you killed a man he spared."

"The Inquisitor is clearly feeble in the head if he thinks it wise to let a murdering knife-ear wander around his fortress like he owns the place,” Heinrich mutters. “If it weren't for that mark on his hand and those simpering sycophants, your head would be rolling by now and we could all get back to ridding the world of monsters like you.”

"Monsters? I'm flattered." Felran cocks his head as he stares at the guardsman. "You really believe that?" He taps his chin with a finger, other arm folded across his chest. "Good to know the Inquisitor has the loyalty of his guardsmen during this trying time. Men like you have no decency."

Heinrich's hand grabs his wrist, fingers clenching tightly into the space between bones, but Felran grows still and doesn't give the man the pleasure of seeing his pain.

"Shut your Maker-damned mouth. What do you know of decency?"

Felran glares as his jaw tightens, but doesn't speak. He breaths through his nose, and doesn't back down.

Heinrich is forced to let go when a watchman pushes open the nearby door and heads out onto the ramparts; they share a nod.

Felran rubs his wrist as he lowers it to his side.

Heinrich only pays him mind once the watchman is gone. "Make life easy on yourself, if you're not going to crawl into a hole to die like you should, and keep your mouth shut."

“I will if you will,” Felran mutters.

Heinrich snarls. “It’s time you were locked up for the night, I’ll inform Grand Enchanter Fiona she has no further need of you.”

Felran rolls his eyes, and mutters viciously under his breath as he follows the knight into the tower, quieting only when Heinrich fixes him with a glare.

At his cell, Heinrich holds the door open for him, and instead of slamming it shut behind him, steps inside and closes it softly. Felran straightens, his hands curling into fists at his sides, taking a step back.

"The little rabbit's a bit quieter when he's alone with the wolf, hm?" Heinrich says, smirking as he steps closer.

Felran flinches as his back meets the cold wall, sending a shudder down his spine. He stares into Heinrich's pale eyes and steadies himself, the two of them staring each other down for several long, silent moments.

Then pain cracks up through his torso as Heinrich's knee slams into his solar plexus. He falls to the floor, and Heinrich's boot collides with his stomach. His insides lurch, and he vomits onto the stone, his head flopping into the mess as Heinrich kicks him again, and he feels something creak under his arms, wrapped tightly around his abdomen in an attempt to protect himself.

"Stay down, rabbit," Heinrich says with a wicked gleam in his eyes as he presses his boot down on Felran's chest until he's gasping, wheezing for breath as tears trickle into his hair.

A ball of heat forms in his palm, singeing his skin as it condenses into a crackling, sparking storm cloud.

Heinrich stops his assault and stares down at him with a curiously raised eyebrow. "Should I be afraid?" He crouches down and grins down at him. "One more templar-sympathiser head to add to your wall? Well, if you're taking mine, I'm just glad they'll take yours in payment."

Felran glares up at the man through watering eyes, and clenches his jaw. Slowly, the sparks in his palm fade to nothing.

"That's what I thought," Heinrich snorts. Grabbing Felran's collar, he drags him to his feet and slams him back against the wall, before kissing him roughly and biting down on his lower lip until he draws blood. He pulls back and grins triumphantly, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth and smearing red onto his cheek.

Felran snarls."And you wonder why I killed men like you."

Heinrich laughs, shoves Felran back against the wall once more, and saunters out. "Sleep well, maleficar."

He slams the door behind him.


End file.
